Late: A Study In Punctuality
by Emma Lynch
Summary: "Lateness is your greatness, Lestrade. It is the fall back position of so many disorganised bodies in this great city." Sherlock Holmes hates to be kept waiting and doesn't everyone know it. It s going to take a combination of John s blog, the mockery of his friends and the love of a certain pathologist to show him the error of his ways... Humour, cases and, of course, love!
1. Chapter 1

`It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was upon a scent, so that his lateness came as no surprise.`

(The Beryl Coronet – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

Prologue:

"Ah, shit! Not this road as well? Have you tried the Cradlewell Bypass?"

DI Gregory Lestrade lurched centripetally into the passenger door of the speeding police car as Donovan took his simple request as an excuse to audition for Top Gear`s circuit challenge. A screech of tyres and brakes and blind clutching (why didn't police cars have interior handles?) on his part allowed for a re-route so swift, any SatNav would have blown a gasket.

"Bloody hell, Sally, I didn't mean immediately – let`s keep the G-force to a minimum when traversing central London of an evening."

"It`s four a.m., Boss. I did pass the advanced police driver`s course with – "

" – yeah, Distinction, I know. And I am will be distinctly dis-chuffed if we take out any tax paying member of the public on the way to a crime scene. It never goes down well, as you know."

Sally Donovan righted the car and marginally lessened the fierce pressure she was applying to the accelerator pedal. She scowled, knowing how she`d embroider the story to Sanderson later that night. Her new beau seemed most impressed with her bad-ass descriptions of _Days on the Force_. Too bad that mad, emergency back-up provision didn't feature too often, but when it did, she meant to make the most of it. Endless cone/traffic light pop ups were conspiring against the London driver even when travelling at a snail`s pace. High speed, 0 – 60 _John Woo/James_ _Cameron_ car chases were, perhaps, a teeny bit out of the question.

Greg had gratefully found purchase beneath his seat as he braced his feet in the well.

"Take this next left; I think the lights were taken down last n – ah, bollocks…"

And he closes his eyes.

**X**

_Oh, muses Sherlock Holmes, how the common criminal fails to mask his imprint on the world_.

_Disappointing._

A toxic and pungent mixture of cheap aftershave, buttery body odour, mentholated cough sweet and heftily-soled trainer had telegraphed the kidnapper attempting to approach him from the shadows of the abandoned wharf building in the Limehouse Cut; one of the oldest canals in London, dating from the eighteenth century. Once the China town of London, and home to a thousand opium dens, the area was full of derelict wharfs and warehouses that came nowhere near the reach of the law. Criminal-friendly, one might say.

Almost.

"John!"

Sherlock threw his entire length with more grace and agility than was decent, across the filthy, rat-infested floor, reaching out a long, pale hand in time to rendezvous with John Watson`s army revolver, thrown and caught with surprising serendipity.

Sherlock sat up straight and the highly flavoured James Morecroft, aka, `Killer Evans`, found himself staring into the barrel of a highly reliable firearm, attached to a highly adept consulting detective.

"Oh, I don`t think so, Mr Morecroft, do you?"

The voice of John Watson carries across the dripping and cavernous shell of a building.

"She`s ok, Sherlock. Just scared and cold."

Sherlock stands slowly, without losing an atom of focus from his recently acquired felon, who is increasingly looking both fearful and mindful.

"Just as well for you, especially since your – _co-worker_ – has _rather_ left you to pick up the pieces. Don`t fret, I will be paying a visit to him in due course, and – "

And, with an inexplicable suddenness, Sherlock is met with a development so shocking and unexpected, he is genuinely left speechless.

_Killer_ Evans has fallen to his knees, his face crumpling into a torrent of ugly and unbecoming tears. Sobs rack his stocky little body and the only word an increasingly discomforted Sherlock Holmes can make out is a garbled, watery and oft-repeated –

"Sorry … I`m so SORRY …"

The sobbing continues as John steps across from attending to the kidnap victim, now wrapped in his jacket. She has shown a great deal more courage than this ridiculous creature. John can almost feel Sherlock`s embarrassment of apprehending such a _pathetic_ villain just radiating off him in waves. He conceals a smile as he watches his friend blink, frown and then mentally shake it off.

"Oh, do shut up – overusing a word can only dilute it, you idiot."

Hmm, thinks John Watson – clearly a motto Sherlock had always intended to live by.

**X**

"Live on evasions? No, I save no evil."

"Hmm – repetition but, pretty good, my turn."

John sits on a filthy box atop a filthy floor. He has long since waved goodbye to the hope of resurrecting his trousers after this latest chase. Mrs Hudson`s duster bag was to soon be replenished. Again.

He thinks.

"Was it a cat, or a car, I saw?"

Triumphant.

Sherlock scowls. Extra points were awarded for a question, and John was levelling up. Really, where WAS Lestrade? Had he not texted the urgency of the situation? And given precise and accurate co-ordinates? If the man wanted his help, he should really be there for the fun part – the arrest and general `banging to rights`. Sherlock had used a creative degree of logic and deduction to ascertain the whereabouts, locate the criminal and liberate Miss Helen Stoner, heiress to a bespoke baby knitwear company (_by Royal appointment, according to Mycroft_), so why couldn't the police get there and liberate them from this tragic _kenopsia _of a building. Poor show.

And the snivelling dishevelled heap in the corner was doing nothing for his powers of concentration.

He sighs.

"Resume so pacific a pose, muser."

He smiles, _victory_. Relevance to the situation gained a three point bonus. However, John was becoming quite the _palindrome_ expert. He would have to sleep with one eye open regarding this matter. John was also suspiciously good at board games. Sherlock actually blamed Mycroft for his own failings in this area. He never showed the slightest morsel of patience with a set of rules, and this had somehow rubbed off on his brother. Rubbish big brother.

"And, _please,_ do shut up, Morecroft." He added, to the sniveller.

Luckily, Helen, the _actual_ victim, was double-wrapped and cosy by virtue of a donkey jacket (John`s) and a Belstaff (Sherlock`s) and cheered further by several slugs from John`s hip flask.

"Sex at noon … taxes." She suddenly blurts out, leaning against Sherlock, and smiling into his clear eyes.

"Quite." Says he, ignoring John.

Where the hell were the POLICE?

**X**

Stealth? Clearly not a strong point, muses a deeply resentful Sherlock, as the best of the Yarders eventually come scrabbling up the rickety stair well, amongst yells, obscenities and a huge collection of torches and lights.

"Ah, the circus has come to town! And luckily, _before_ one of us acquired rheumatism – excellent."

All stand to greet Lestrade and his crew; John helping a slightly shocked and giddy Helen to her feet, and Sherlock hauling her tearful kidnapper to his.

"Sarcasm, Sherlock? Who knew?" Although Sally Donovan has desisted from `Freak` for quite a while, and garnered a (very secret) growing admiration for Sherlock`s methods, she knew he had to be kept in his place from time to time. Sanderson strongly agreed. He hated Sherlock.

**X**

"Bloody roadworks at every verse end, lads – what do you want from me? I got here as quickly as humanly possible. Perhaps a _bit quicker_, taking into account Sally`s impression of The Stig."

Lestrade is pretty grateful to Sherlock. The case had become massively high profile due to the Royal connection and he hadn't felt terribly comfortable with the thought of Mycroft breathing down his neck over this one. Nothing had really been said, but Greg was extra wary of Sherlock`s older brother since the Seiga incident of the previous year. He always felt a prickle down his spine when he thought of that. _God, he missed her…_

He has become aware that both Sherlock and John are staring at him.

"What?"

"You`ve kinda glazed over a bit, Greg," remarks John, smiling.

And Sherlock says nothing, but marvels internally how the emotions of some people play out so well on their faces. He could so easily take a leisurely stroll within the mind of Greg Lestrade, that it was almost … impertinent. Like taking a barefoot walk in the grass, rather than wearing stout boots. It was all about a woman. Tedious. Additional deduction_: That_ woman. More intriguing.

"Apologies again for the lateness," gabbles Greg, determined to change the subject.

"It`s fine – "

"Outstandingly poor – "

Greg stops, hands in pockets and faces Sherlock. It`s 6 a.m., he`s _cream crackered_, the paperwork will be triple-checked this time, and he`s sure he`s got a stye forming …

"Look, Mr Perfect, I have given my sincerest apologies, and I AM very grateful for your help on this, but, Jesus, Sherlock, have you _never been late_? For anything? In your whole life?"

Sherlock openly sneers, wrinkling his nose in the cruelly dismissive way that had often inspired John`s `_punch me in the face_` sub-text in dealings with him.

"Lateness is your greatness, Lestrade. It is the fall back position of so many disorganised bodies in this great city. `_The bus didn't turn up`,_ `_the nanny was ill`, `my alarm didn't go off`, `there was a queue at Starbucks`, `my head fell off`_ - with the exception of the last one, these are the excuses of the pitifully bad planner and the poorly organised. We live in a society of blame, where the appalling rudeness of lateness could easily be overcome by anticipation and forward planning."

He flicks up his collar and turns into the approaching dawn, silently urging its early morning glow along the Thames Estuary. Seagulls squawk overhead and a salty dampness pervades the air. Another day on planet Earth is warming up.

John folds his arms and furrows a disbelieving brow.

"So, what you are telling me is that you have never, in living memory, been late. For anything. Ever."

"I am."

"Hmm…"

And as they get into the police car, Sherlock`s smug demeanour is unassailable – almost.

He doesn't like the glint in the indigo eyes of John H Watson, and feels he hears the distinct clatter of a gauntlet being cast to the ground.


	2. The Case of The Closing Dry Cleaners

John H Watson MD blogs:

Hi there everyone, sorry it`s been so long since my last post. Many of Sherlock`s recent cases have been a bit _hush hush_ (keep calm and carry on, Mycroft) so I haven't always been able to share. You may be glad to hear that _The Case of the Speckled Sweater_ has been well and truly sewn up (sorry, everyone) and Miss Stoner is once again free to clothe royal princes and princesses alike in her adorable knitwear. Both Sherlock and myself have become proud owners of a very generous hamper of designer woollens, and I hope to post a few pictures whenever I catch him with his guard down.

I actually do have a very special request to make of everyone today… a chance for readers who may know Sherlock (and myself) to become part of the blog and afford us all a little amusement along the way… I am calling it (at the risk of offending no-one but myself) `_The Late Sherlock Holmes_`. Sherlock has recently (and rather recklessly, I feel) announced that he has, in all his adult life, _never been late for anything_. Punctuality, apparently, is the politeness of more than just Kings. Sherlock cannot tolerate lateness and swears he is a paragon of virtue in this area. So, I am reaching out, across _Blogsville_ to ask the question:

`_The Late Sherlock Holmes – Fact or Fiction?`_ Examples and anecdotes will be greatly appreciated and private messaging can also be arranged.

Over to you.

JHW

Comments: (10)

**Greg L**: Ha ha ha ha! Bloody serves him right! I`ll put the word out at the Yard.

**JHW**: Cheers Greg – Sally might be a good bet.

**Sherlock Holmes**: John, this is intolerable – Desist at once!

**JHW**: Er – no. If what you said was true, Sherlock, you should have nothing to worry about. Just collecting data to corroborate your statement. Facts are our friends, Sherlock.

**Sherlock Holmes**: You KNOW this blog is for the recording of cases, John, not idle tittle tattle regarding my habits and character traits.

**JHW:** That is _exactly_ what it has always been for (alongside the crime solving, natch) – sorry Sherlock – my blog, my rules.

**Mary Watson**: John, you are being just a little bit naughty – and sexy. See you at home.

**JHW**: Count on it.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Appalled.

**Greg L**: Check your inbox John – Sally came up with the goods. Lol.

**X**

The Case of the Closing Dry-Cleaners

(with assistance from Sally Donovan and M Hudson)

Sherlock Holmes is noticed in his Belstaff coat. Some might say it is iconic. The way he swoops into a case, solves it, flips up his collar, then a turn on his heel, and leaving everyone wondering _how the hell that happened_ – all down to the coat. And a little bit of deduction too, I suppose.

But mostly the coat.

Sherlock has more than one coat; in fact he has several. Some have become casualties of the violent and corpse-strewn situations we often find ourselves involved in. Blood spatter; dangerous chemicals; estuary filth, rabid dogs – all have all affected some degree of wear and tear upon the armour that surrounds the world`s only Consulting Detective. They are subject to damage, and therefore subject to a damned good clean as the need arises. Apparently, it isn't that easy to get cerebral fluid out of wool – who knew?

One cold, February morning in 2010, a week or two before Sherlock and I first met, he had cause to attend an important interview with a triple poisoner at New Scotland Yard. DI Lestrade and Sgt Donovan were relying on Sherlock`s key questions to elicit a full and incriminating confession from Giles Gilchrist, an ex-chemistry professor from St. Andrews University, who had chosen to diversify his CV somewhat in order to procure several trust funds. Gilchrist was a snake-like, slippery creature, who`s intellect had afforded him, despite his guilt, the potential to escape on a technicality. Only the intellect of Sherlock Holmes was likely to trip him and lure him to confess. A lot, friends, was resting on the shoulders of my friend.

Sherlock had risen early, dressed quickly, eaten nothing (as was his wont on a case) and alighted the chilly Baker Street staircase to wrap his talisman coat around his body on the way out. Frost was on the pavements and a light drizzle was threatening snow before the grey, street lit morning was much older.

But the peg was empty.

"Mrs HUDSON!" His yell resonated through the building, covering all bases, just in case she was cleaning out the attic.

"Mrs Hudson, have you seen my COAT? I need to be at Scotland Yard within the hour!"

A creaking of door hinges, and she appeared, all rubber gloved and cloth in hand, and all Sherlock sees (besides the lack of coat) is a new-looking necklace, titian tinted highlights and a certain tiredness around the eyes.

"Hmmm – visiting your sister and her new grandchildren tomorrow? She actually knows you hate that necklace she bought you…"

Martha Hudson shakes her head, knowing his little ways – if only he had other people to deduce at home, maybe she wouldn't have her life continuously scrutinised in this way. Still, she did have a soft spot –

"A little focus, Mrs Hudson." His voice is quieter, but his teeth are gritted. "Time is ticking…"

Martha puts down the cloth and folds her arms.

"Sherlock, you know it`s at the dry-cleaners – all that mucus! It wasn't very nice, dear. You asked me to take it in yesterday."

Sherlock ran through his Mind Palace with a slightly uncomfortable thought nudging in through its back door… he knew that coat number one had been sent to the tailor for repairs after an unfortunate altercation with an angry florist and some garden shears (seemingly, some people didn't enjoy a direct accusation at their place of work) and coat number two had been given to a member of the Homeless Network in exchange for some rather illuminating information about a less than scrupulous M.P.

_Unfortunate._

Coat number three was in Mycroft`s possession, since he had requested it several weeks ago. Sherlock had been so cocksure of his coat collection that he hadn't even bothered to argue with his brother`s strange (and hitherto unexplained) request.

A glaring error was now flashing red in the hard drive of his Palace, as a rather unfortunate realisation was dawning…

Coat number four (his only remaining option) was currently residing at the Dry Cleaners on Old Grafton Street, a short taxi ride or twenty minute jog away from where he now stood.

_Regrettable._

Sherlock glanced at his watch. He needed that coat. That coat added the gravitas necessary to inveigle a confession from Gilchrist. Poisoners were always so damn sure of themselves. That coat would have given Sherlock the confidence to impress his superiority upon this murderer; to bring him to his knees. Sherlock was sufficiently self-aware to realise that, no matter how sharp and erudite your deductions were, an imposing physical presence was something to be found quite useful.

That coat was his _disguise._

All this passed through the mind of Sherlock Holmes in under three seconds, and his only remaining option in the second after that.

After the door slammed, rattling in its frame, he still could hear the words of Mrs Hudson resonating:

"Mind the paintwork, dear – and you`d better RUN!"

If only he had stayed long enough to hear her advise him that it was half day closing at the Grafton Street Dry-Cleaners.

_Wretched._

Thus, friends, it came to pass that on that Thursday morning, Lestrade and Donovan were sweating over the coffee machine as they checked the clock for about the fiftieth time. One o`clock would see the end of the time they had before Gilchrist`s lawyer had him out of their custody. If Sherlock didn't arrive within the next – nine minutes! – all would be lost. Six months work, down the drain.

"Freak`s messing with us, Boss… he`s never late."

"He wouldn't do it, Sally – he knows what it means if Gilchrist gets out today… he`s worked hard on this case too."

"You mean he`s rubbed everyone up the wrong way, used our resources and refused to share ideas until he fancied it."

Greg stirs the muddy water passing for coffee at the Yard.

" – er, well, yes, but – "

Seven minutes.

Greg checked his phone. The last text he`d had from the multifarious texter who was Sherlock Holmes had been forty minutes ago –

`_Small problem. Minor. Will be there. SH`_

This oddly helpful and conciliatory tone had already put him on edge. Sherlock didn't usually go in for `helpful`. And what he considered `small` was maybe a little `larger` to others. What had happened? Was he hurt? Imprisoned? Bored?

Four minutes.

"Boss, we are going to have to go down now – it`s nearly time."

"But he`s not bloody HERE..!"

"Yes he is."

A tsunami of relief then engulfed Greg Lestrade as the unmistakeable voice of Sherlock Holmes cut through the crowded office, and he looked up.

Everyone looked up.

Sherlock stood in the door, dusted with a layer of freshly fallen snow. His hair was – well, tousled was an understatement, his cheeks a hectic shade of pink, and sweat was very discernable on his upper lip. Good grief – Sherlock Holmes was _dishevelled!_

Sally snorted, Sherlock scowled and Greg decided that explanations could wait.

"Get down to that interview room, now!"

And his hand steered the back of his consulting detective around towards the stairs, crinkling on the wet, bright blue nylon and brushing against a rather sweet little hood which had almost filled with snow.

"No taxi," growled Sherlock, getting his breath back slowly.

"So I see," smirked Greg Lestrade.

"Nice cagoule," added Sally Donovan, making a mental picture to store forever in her own Mind Palace.

**X**

The Case of the Closing Dry-Cleaners

Comments: (17)

**Sally Donovan**: Ha ha ha! Brilliantly told John Watson! Almost like you were there!

**JHW**: I feel I was there, Sally – thanks for the notes, from the bottom of my heart.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Inaccuracies everywhere and overly romanticised for your ever present touch of the ridiculous.

**Mary Watson**: Loved it! Are there pictures?

**Sally Donovan**: On my other SIM card – I will find them!

**Sherlock Holmes**: No.

**Sally Donovan:** You can`t stop me, Sherlock.

**Sherlock Holmes**: I can. I have your SIM.

**Sally Donovan**: What?!

**G Lestrade**: Children … play nice. It`s just a little joke, Sherlock. See, everyone can be late.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Maybe everyone else, but since I arrived in time, elicited a full confession and convicted a murderer, I am not _everyone_.

**Mary Watson**: Sherlock, sweetie, you were a tad late for the dry cleaners.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Open to argument. They closed earlier than advertised.

**M Hudson**: Hello John, Hello Sherlock (and everyone else), Mrs Hudson here … oh, I remember that day! What fun. Sherlock had to borrow my ex-husband`s anorak in the end.

**JHW**: I need to hear more, Mrs H.

**Mary Watson**: Me too!

**Sherlock Holmes**: I am disabling the comments. All please leave.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hi Espee - good to see you again!**

**PreetiSahai - thank you so much for your kind words - so glad you like this universe! Also, much gratitude for the heads up with the tagging - I thought I`d save them, but something obviously went wrong - have amended! You are so right about Sanderson!**

**I realise the slight timing issue - I know Sherlock moving in at 221B just before John did, but I have `adjusted` it to about a month before - cheeky of me, I know.**

**Thank you for reviews - they rock my world :)**


	3. The Case of The Aromatic Detective

**A/N: Captain Thorneycroft Huxtable was a character from a previous story, When Sherlock Met The Other One. He stayed at Baker Street for a while when he was being blackmailed, and formed a bond with both John and Sherlock. He is an army captain, all round good egg, and has the alias of `Vincent Starrett` to protect his anonymity.**

* * *

John H Watson blogs:

Hi there everyone, thanks for all of the excellent (and informative) comments and messages regarding my current thread. Sherlock does, however, insist that he hasn't yet been technically proven to have been late. Although, Sally, your suggestion was (wildly) amusing, we must regretfully discount it. Therefore, my followers, I am able to once again throw open to the floor the question of _The Late Sherlock Holmes – fact or fiction?..._

Let the tales commence – I am truly greedy for your words …

JHW

Private Message: From **Thornycroft Huxtable**

Hi John, loving the Blog and missing you and Sherlock. Robin sends his love and loved meeting you both at the wedding. Since you are looking for `late` anecdotes about Sherlock, why not mention the time he was late to our wedding? Am sure you must both have some happy memories about THAT! Come for dinner next week, and bring Mary and Molly. Your wife cracks me up, and Robin is a little bit in love with Molly Hooper.

Best wishes, Thorn.

The Adventure of the Aromatic Detective

(with assistance from Capt. V Starrett*)

Regular readers of the Blog will most probably recall _The Case of The White Rose and The Silver Bullet_ last year, and the involvement of Captain Vincent Starrett*. Captain Starrett has recently seen fit to jog my memory regarding _The Late Sherlock Holmes Challenge_, and I recount the following tale for you now.

A warm May morning saw me calling in at Baker Street to rehash some notes about the South American Bolas case with Sherlock. Mrs Hudson handed me the post to take up to him which he flicked through in approximately ten seconds, labelling each:

"Boring … boring … libellous … boring … oh, _not so boring_, but limited … oh dear…"

The final comment was afforded to a stiff and expensive looking envelope, lined with gold paper and richly addressed with a cursive hand.

"What`s the matter? Professor Moriarty invited you to a garden party?" The missive certainly had the look of an invitation. And indeed it was.

"You know only too well what I think of weddings," muttered Sherlock Holmes, tossing the offending item across.

"Oh, Vincent and Joseph* are getting married – that _is_ brilliant!"

"Enchanting."

My friend can occasionally affect to be a little curmudgeonly regarding events of this nature, but I knew he had formed a fondness for Vincent, and was affected by his happiness.

"I`ll put you down as a `yes` then?"

"Humpphh."

"Or – _that, _if you prefer."

**X**

"Mummy, it`s _sooo_ pretty!"

Benedict Holmes, held by his mother, reached up a hand to touch the twinkling fairy lights that were intertwined between shimmering vines and luscious bunches of grapes hanging glamorously from the roof. Everything was glowing and twinkling in the early evening dusk, resembling Titania`s bower – a place of magic and bewitching possibilities.

"Yes, my darling, it really, really _is_."

Molly Hooper`s uplifted face was highlighted by the glow of a thousand twinkles. The heavy scent of lilies and roses hung evocatively in the wedding gazebo of Captain Starrett and Major Joseph Hope* and an elegant string quartet played Delibes` _Lakmé: The Flower Duet__,_as waiters circulated with silver trays of crystal champagne goblets.

"Classy, Molly, very classy," Mary Watson had sidled up, in possession of an aforementioned glass and a fidgety three year old.

"Gotta admire the taste of these army guys – I was expecting camo nets and a marching band."

Molly laughed, and placed Ben on the floor to run off somewhere inappropriate with Sholto Watson.

"We could maybe relax and hope their daddies catch up with them before the ceremony starts." Mary glances across and notices Molly has an oddly familiar _tense_ demeanour, in sharp contrast to the sweetness of her sugared almond coloured dress and hair bow.

"Ah, he`s not here yet, is he? John said he was on his way half an hour ago!"

Molly`s marmoset eyes glanced down to her watch and she scrunched up her nose. Sherlock had assured her that the Billingsgate Swindler was a man who had absolutely no idea he had been rumbled, and it was merely a matter of turning up and catching him in the act at the fish market. He was five foot one and over seventeen stone, therefore Sherlock felt confident a full on chase was not going to mess up his wedding attending timetable too much.

A formality.

A tying up of a case.

Most likely too, a chance to show off a bit, but she knew how much he loved that…

Fifteen minutes before vows were said and rings exchanged, and things didn't look too hopeful for Sherlock Holmes seeing any of it.

"Ah, I`ll just record it on my phone and he can watch it later… can`t imagine why he hasn't texted though."

**X**

Sherlock was only dimly aware that he was wearing his morning suit as he ducked and rolled beneath the gutting table. A huge tray of freshly iced fish had already been clattered to the ground and a billion shards of ice made purchase extremely difficult (particularly if one was wearing leather soled wedding brogues).

"You can`t prove a thing!"

The shrill cry of Georges Von Kramm, fishmonger and part time swindler belied his diminutive stature and generous girth and Sherlock cursed himself for not immediately recognising the calloused knuckles and thick wrists of a bare-knuckle wrestler. As he crawled from beneath the table (home, incidentally, to a hundred or so fish heads), it was only Sherlock`s own martial arts and boxing training that afforded him time to duck beneath the substantial swing of a forty pound tail of semi-frozen cod.

"Von Kramm, you are wasting your time! I have emailed all the data to Gregson at the Yard. Cars are on the way…"

Sherlock hates being interrupted more than anything, but he found himself to be unable to continue speaking as a seventeen stone ball of fish-scented fury rugby tackled his legs, causing both accuser and accusee to sprawl helplessly across the wet and icy concrete, into a gelatinous and coagulating heap of fish guts piled up in the corner.

It was only as Sherlock Holmes garnered his captor in a head lock and heard the approaching siren and screech of brakes, did he finally begin to consider his prior engagement and the current condition of his ensemble.

_Lamentable._

**X**

The famous and talented Vitamin String Quartet had struck up `_All You Need is Love_` by the Beatles and a fevered and excited air of anticipation fluttered through the seated guests. Benedict sat in his own gilded chair rather than his mother`s lap and Molly had her phone ready and waiting. Suddenly, her hand was jostled by the curly head of a three year old climbing onto her knee.

"Ben, careful – I told you, you can have Daddy`s chair now, as he isn`t coming."

"Silly mummy," whispers Ben, astonishingly aware a whisper was in order, "Daddy`s he-yah…"

Murmurings and mumblings along the row and Molly Hooper`s eyes widen to see Sherlock Holmes sliding across towards her, seconds before the groom got level with them on his ponderous journey up the aisle. Sherlock was causing a regrettable degree of consternation, and as he neared, Molly`s olfactory senses began to detect why.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, what is that SMELL…?"

A wave of brine soaked putridity washed over as he landed in the seat beside her. Benedict`s eyes were wide in horror as he reached up to his father`s hair.

"Daddy, why have you got bones in your hair? You smell _horrible_!"

Sherlock is ineffectually dabbing at his lapels with tissues, but Molly already knows that suit will never, ever be free from the rancid Billingsgate odour.

Both Sherlock and Molly`s eyes are set dead ahead towards the happy spectacle unfolding before them in a vain attempt to play down the _debacle,_ but it didn't stop Mary Watson leaning forward from the row behind and whispering through her massively inappropriate grin.

"Don`t look now, Sherlock Holmes, but I think there`s something fishy going on around here!"

And there is a polite round of applause as the music stopped and Captain Starrett reached the side of the man he loves.

*Names have been changed to protect identities

**X**

The Adventure of the Aromatic Detective

Comments: (18)

**CTH**: Oh, well done Doctor Watson! Just how I remember it!

**JHW**: I thank you Captain, for jogging my memory.

**Mary Watson**: Not bad; cod do batter!

**G Lestrade**: Ha ha! Now Mary, there is no need to carp on about it!

**Mike Stamford**: I can`t believe Sherlock was anything less than smart.

**Mary Watson**: He was as smart as a kipper, Mike!

**Sally Donovan**: Now everyone, this is a thread I`m seriously hooked on …

**JHW**: I feel torn about teasing like this though – kinda stuck between a Rock and a hard Plaice …

**G Lestrade**: Oh, you Bass-stard!

**M Hudson**: Oh, now, everyone – you are being really mean, picking on Sherlock. He _did_ catch that bad fish man, and still made it to the wedding before it actually started.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Thank you, Mrs Hudson, for once, the voice of sanity. Without you, England would fall.

**CTH**: Sorry Sherlock, I was to blame for the story – I hope you can forgive me.

**Sherlock Holmes**: I think, after what I did to your wedding bower, we can call it even.

**CTH**: Very gracious, thank you Sherlock.

**Mary Watson**: Sorry, John, but I think Mrs Hudson is right – Sherlock wasn't technically late for the wedding.

**JHW**: Damn you Morstan, who`s side are you on?

**Mary Watson**: Sorry – didn't mean to be con-tench-ous!

**Sherlock Holmes**: Am disabling now everyone – better luck next time John.

**X**

* * *

**A/N:**

**Arcoiris: `cheeky` indeed - some fun was in order!**

**Black Night: Thank you for review - much appreciated (I love the comments too!)**


	4. Sliding Doors

**A/N: A change of pace - an interval, if you will**

* * *

John H Watson`s Blog

Private Message from: **_when_i_say_run_**

Doctor Watson, I am hugely enjoying `_The Late Sherlock Holmes_` thread – how illuminating and entertaining for (almost) all. I don`t wish to be public about this, but it would be rather fun if you could alert Sherlock to the message I sent to his _Science of Deduction_ Blog a few moments ago. It relates very much to your topic, and he _will_ have an inkling as to what I am referring. I cannot, however, guarantee he will want to share the tale with you, but you now, at least, have the chance to ask. He _was_ late, and I leave it to him to decide if that was for the best or not.

Choosing is the new sexy x

**X**

_In the south east of Serbia, the city of Niš is an important crossroads between central Europe and the Middle East, and assumes the central position in the Balkan peninsula. __The city is also a major regional railway junction and these __railway links include international trains from Thessaloniki, Greece to Ljubljana, Slovenia, via Skopje, Belgrade and Zagreb, as well as Istanbul. The trains are slow, not very clean, and still in the seventies style, but tickets are cheap, the scenery is sometimes beautiful, and sleeping cars are usually an option. Irene Adler sits in a squalid brushed nylon seat on one of these trains. She is clammy, overheated, fidgety and in need of a cool drink, but she sits, because she believes._

_She believes in Sherlock Holmes…_

When a man you really, really fancy sweeps in and saves your rubbish old life, you feel you might just owe him an obligation. He`s distant, brilliant, unreachable, has devilish cheekbones and appears to hate you – what`s not to love?

You have hurt him, hurt him very badly – you have played a game with a very bad man, but you knew it meant less and less, until it melted into nothing. Your beleaguered heart aches because you know that the man you were supposed to dupe was the man you wanted to save, and his Icelandic eyes cut your heart in two when he said:

"_I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."_

Then, when he slices through the neck of the man who has a knife to your throat, you know what is meant by `the final proof`.

Sherlock and I played a _mighty _game. We met, we flirted; we met, we hated; we met, we murdered … you can see how addictive that kind of relationship might be.

He was, and is, the sexiest man I have ever met. Men are not my first choice, but when I saw Sherlock Holmes, I recalibrated my heart, because he was someone I wanted to let inside.

And I never let people inside. _Never_.

My role is that of a controller – a person who says what, when, how, who etc. etc…. but when I saw _that_ man in _that_ sheet, I genuinely and utterly, wanted him to notice ME…

So, when he said `_run_`, I ran … as fast and as far as I could go. I didn't look, breathe, hope or plan – I just ran. And Sherlock found me, and he held me, and he looked into my eyes, and I think he forgave me.

_And I needed him to_.

I had been the bitch of Jim Moriarty, but Sherlock Holmes lodged so deep inside my brain that I just played the game without realising what that meant. Sherlock gave me the chance to live another life and to be someone better, and I sat on that train and I waited for him, since he said he was on his way.

Alabaster skin, sea green eyes, dark curls, spare, lean physique - _lovely_ … but what does all that matter when you sit on the train and the man doesn't appear?

The station clock ticked on, and Eastern European station guards, with their own Slavic cheekbones, blew their whistles, and the jig was up. Engines rumbled into life and the train moved slowly but inexorably along the platform, building speed with every second, taking me away –

Away from any kind of a chance.

And I turned away from the window, humiliation complete. No dominatrix the world over had ever elicited a shame so heavy. To him, it hadn't been worth it.

I hadn't been worth it.

I looked ahead, to the wall of the carriage opposite. A mirror reflects my pale, luminous face, with blood red lips, right back at me.

_Idiot._

I can still see the platform, edging further and further away, reflected in that scratched and battered 1970`s mirror. A sea of heads, bodies, faces, luggage – a mighty throng converging from a station, where the East meets the West, and everyone is just passing through. Then, without warning, my heart almost stops and my breath hitches in my throat… a dark head, a good measure above the shorter folk passing him by. A pale glare and a face, turning, searching, looking, watching my train pulling away.

If I expected a dramatic sprint along the platform, a door wrenched open and a declaration of devotion, I would have been disappointed, but truthfully, I did not expect that. He watched my train go and I saw a kind of sad curiousity behind those Icelandic eyes; an element of regret for something he didn't even know he wanted; an interest piqued, then lost, like a child with a new favourite toy.

And I was gone.

**X**

Forgive me for contacting you, my darling, but I simply could not resist a final communication. You didn't know that I saw you, I`m sure, but I want you to know that I did. Dr Watson`s silly little challenge brought back to me the day that Sherlock Holmes _was _late. I don't know what caused your tardiness, but I imagine you to have vacillated around your true motives for meeting me. I am still not sure what my motives were for meeting up with you, other than the fact that I just – _wanted you_.

I suppose a small part of me always will.

Well, this has been a pleasure. I don`t want you to reply – I know all about the obligations you have acquired – hard to believe of someone so damaged and delusional, but there you are. This is how I want you to remember me now, Sherlock, _the Woman you were late for…_

Sorry about dinner. X

**X**

Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes lie across her double bed; his head at the headboard and hers at the foot. Lights are off, but the open curtains allow a cool breeze and a full, brilliant moon to filter into the windows of 221A and illuminate the crumpled sheets and their skin with a translucent glow. Molly`s bedside alarm is tick, tick, ticking and barely a car passes in the early hours of the morning. It`s as quiet as you can ever get in central London.

Molly Hooper is thinking very carefully. She suddenly gasps and speaks in an excited whisper:

"Stella won no wallets!"

"Bravo, Molly," rumbles Sherlock, "not bad at all for your first try."

"It`s taken me about fifteen minutes!" squeaks Molly.

"Did it? I must have fallen asleep."

She rolled over and hitches up to his half of the bed, puts her chin into the crook of his neck, and touches the end of his nose.

"Nah, _Pinocchio_, you weren't sleeping, you were thinking."

"I _do_ do that."

"Yeah, you do, but I happen to think I know to whence your thoughts were drifting – "

"Your grammar makes my teeth ache, Molly."

"Deflection! Anyway, I am a scientist."

"As am I, but – standards, please."

"Pedant."

"Accuracy costs nothing."

"Deflector!" She pokes him in his bare ribcage for added emphasis, which elicits a tiny and uncharacteristic shriek which serves to both horrify Sherlock and ensure the snorting laughter of Molly Hooper for the next few minutes.

"Oh, God!" She is wiping her eyes, "we are going to wake the boy…why can`t we sleep? Oh, I know – it`s with all the loud _thinking_ going on in here."

Sherlock, occasionally, knows when he is beaten. He rolls over onto his stomach and looks carefully at her.

"I need you to understand that any relationship I ever had with Irene bore no resemblance whatsoever to what I have here, with you."

"I know, Sherlock."

His surprise is evident. _She still manages to surprise me,_ he thinks.

"You know?"

"Yeah, I know. Don't sweat it, Sherlock. I read the message and I understand, I think, the kind of relationship you had. Two, huge, brilliant egos discovering, assessing and admiring each other. It`s almost like you had discovered a giant mirror. So sexy and flirtatious and so much in common, and that's the problem – _too much_ in common."

Sherlock is silent in admiration.

"I think it would never have worked for you two (_besides the fact that she was gay and you don't particularly enjoy a good beating_) because there would have been no room for anything except competition and admiration – it`s exhausting catwalking in front of each other all day, my sexy boy."

_Catwalking_?

Molly wraps her arms around his neck and curls her favourite little nape curl over her finger.

"I think that real love, Sherlock, isn't being there for the glitz, the glamour and the similarities – it`s when things look hopeless, and there are a million reasons to leave, to abandon someone very different from yourself, but you still look for the one reason to stay."

And as she kisses him, and he fills up with a warm, bright, golden light, Sherlock knows he has found his reason.

* * *

**A/N: Arcoiris - a change of tone today, but silliness resumes asap!**


	5. The Case of The Circumstantial Evidence

**A/N: This flashback takes place just after Sherlock has realised and told Molly that he loves her (from my story `The Science of Attraction`) No-one else knows this fact, nor will get to know, for quite some time (John, in particular!).**

**Sanderson is the odious boyfriend of Sally Donovan (they met in `When Sherlock Met the Other One`) - he has been given the pseudonym of `Joseph Swann`.**

* * *

John H Watson`s Blog

Private Message: From **G Lestrade**

Hi John, I was wracking my brains last night for an example of Sherlock`s lateness, and I think we`ve got the bugger! Do you remember the Reynolds trial, around four years ago, just a few months before Molly Hooper went off to Sweden for that research gig? It was the one with ears – when two, unmatched ears were found in that biscuit tin in that shed in Pinner. Double murder. Ring a bell? Sherlock was a key witness, and Molly was called as an expert witness. It was nearly a bloody disaster …

The Curious Case of the Circumstantial Evidence

(with assistance from G Lestrade, S Donovan and S Gnezere)

St. Bart`s Morgue

Lab Two

_11.53 am_

Sherlock strode into the Lab, swishing his coat as was his wont. Sarah Gnezere (_lab assistant_) and Molly Hooper (_lead Pathologist_) looked up from their tasks, then looked down again. The only difference in their reactions appeared to be the hint of a flush on one set of cheeks.

"Sarah."

"Sherlock."

"Molly."

"Sherlock."

Silence. A slight shuffling.

"And … Sarah … how is your parrot?"

"Oh, much better, actually. Thanks for the tip about the vets, Sherlock."

Another pause, followed by a clatter of slides. Molly Hooper blushes further.

"Sorry, butterfingers."

Sherlock walked slowly along the bench, to nowhere in particular. He was wearing his gloves and drew a single finger along its edge, as though collecting dust.

"Did you catch up with Molly the other night?" Sarah was watching them both with a crinkle in her brow. She is tall, dark and loyal. She has been privy to her colleague`s seemingly never ending crush on the suave automaton that was Sherlock Holmes. More than privy – _totally frustrated_ with it, to be honest. She knew lovely Molly Hooper was very much barking up the wrong tree. The wrong forest, truthfully. Strangely, Sherlock seemed a little less suave than usual today.

He was decidedly _flustered_. The trailing glove ceased its traverse and he stopped dead, still not looking at either one of them. Sarah`s glance at Molly revealed a pipette being held upside down.

Should she say something?

"Ah," a deep cough. "Ah, yes, thank you most kindly for your – assistance. We did, actually, run in to each other later on."

Molly grins brightly, too brightly. "Hah, yes, in the park, of all places! Fancied a bit of fresh air. Sherlock walked me home. Nice."

As another awkward silence looms, Sarah makes a decision and stands up.

"I know you have that court case – the ear thing – at one thirty. If you want to discuss it, I don't mind finishing up in Lab One." She gathered her folder and strode towards the door, pausing fractionally to give Sherlock a deep brown eyed glare.

He fancied he heard a slight hiss of words escape her lips. They may have formed into "be nice."

The door swung shut and they were alone. As she turned, momentarily, Sarah saw the face of Molly Hooper through the lab door window, looking up into the face of their visitor.

And she is smiling THAT smile, and Sarah knows a hopeless case when she sees one.

**X**

St Bart`s Morgue

Lab Three

12.07 pm

Joseph Swann*, Lead Pathologist, was not always a very pleasant man to be around. He was short-tempered; he blamed others for his errors whenever possible; he never did his paperwork on time; he never refilled the coffee machine when he`d used the last. And he never unloaded the centrifuge, even when there were no beakers to be found. And he didn't like cats.

_Shame on him_.

He was just checking some notes (for a change) from an autopsy done by Molly Hooper on the previous day. He was hoping she`d mucked up the blood work, but it seemed in order_. Bugger_. Swann was in the process of gathering the file together to replace it in the filing cabinet when he heard it – a crash of breaking glass, coming from the lab next door. Probably one of those new lab monkeys – idiots, fresh out of college, thinking they knew more than he did; trying to catch him out by asking inane questions – " – just to clarify, Dr. Swann …" _Idiots_.

Then, he heard it again – a crash and glass breaking. Swann snarled. He was responsible for the equipment budget this financial year and Mike was so nit-picking if things weren`t jotted down and checked in triplicate. He just didn't have the finances for new beakers every five minutes.

He`d better just pop next door and give a good rollocking to one of those monkeys – time they learnt some respect.

He slammed open the door, to create some kind of authoritative impression and get them quaking in their boots, but was more than annoyed to find the lab completely empty. Swann looked around – he could have _sworn_…

"Hey! Is anyone in here? I just heard something smash! What`s going on?"

A small `_eep_!` could be heard from … the store cupboard, over by the far door.

"Is everything alright?"

Scuffling noises could be heard and it was a matter of around ten seconds before the cupboard door cracked open a fraction and the bright red face of Molly Hooper peeped out.

"Ah, Joseph – sorry! Dropped a couple of beakers in here – was just – er… just looking for a new – er – clipboard…"

"What`s wrong with the one over here on the desk, Dr Hooper? And what has happened to your _hair_?"

Molly`s hand rushed to smooth down her dishevelled pony-tail. She was usually so neat and tidy. Swann was puzzled by the expression on her face. She was normally meek and timid and (overly) helpful around him, but she seemed to have affected an intriguing air of – _mischief_ was the word that sprung immediately to his mind – about her.

_Mischief and Molly_? Not a marriage he had ever pictured, yet, there it was.

"Are you having difficulty clearing it up, Doctor? I can send for a lab technician …"

"No, no, noooo - !" The final word was accompanied by a strange little squeak and a flinch. And he still couldn't see the rest of her body.

"We – I`m just fine. Got a dust pan and everythinggg – " and she disappeared back into the cupboard, shutting the door in a fashion only fractions away from _slamming_.

"Mental," muttered Joseph Swann, under his breath, as he left the lab, almost imagining the shimmer of a giggle floating in the air.

*names have been changed to protect identities

**X**

The Old Bailey

Central Criminal Court

London

1.11 pm

DI Lestrade was pacing the corridor outside Court No. 1. He`d done it before and no doubt he`d be doing it again, but just the once, could he not just sit and have a coffee before a case, instead?

Sgt. Sally Donovan was madly texting. She was texting John Watson, Molly Hooper and even, (GOD!) the _Freak_ himself, to try and find out why no-one had attended the one o`clock briefing before the case was due to begin.

"I SAID, I wanted to go through it one more time, but, NO! Sherlock Holmes is _too good_ to have to sit down with folks and go through it! He just swans in, delivers his words from on high, and leaves – flaring that bloody coat!"

He and Sally have a momentary reprieve from their stress by a sudden, shared mental picture of the _Sherlock Holmes Cagoule incident_, then it is gone, and stress returns.

"Him, I`d believe, Boss, but where is Dr Hooper? She seems a pretty reliable sort."

"She IS! Always on time, always happy to help, and a bright, smart girl. I just hope nothing bad has happened to her…"

Just at that moment, a text alert pings to Sally`s phone.

`_So sorry, on way – emergency came up. Don't worry. MH_`

1.19 pm

The clatter of heels and a black suited (and almost unrecognisable) Molly Hooper skeeters through the wide, marbled corridor. Her hair is folded into a neat chignon and her briefcase gives her the air of professional immaculacy, but her pink cheeks tell another story.

"Thank the Lord!" Lestrade can`t berate her (since she is clearly adorable) but he still has a six foot, smart-arse sized gap in his witness list – Sherlock was veering into danger time. His testimony was essential, and the Court Clerk was ushering them all into the room.

_Last call for the severed ears trial, beginning at Gate 11 …_

It is only when they are seated and Lestrade is gathering the courage to summon the Clerk over to ask for an arraignment rescheduling that the huge wooden door swings open, creating the kind of draught that scatters papers.

_Sherlock bloody Holmes_.

He slips in besides a glowering posse of Scotland Yarders and nods a casual greeting to all, including Molly Hooper.

"Good afternoon everyone. Shall we get started? How charming you look today, Molly…have you done something different with your – hair?"

**X**

The Case of the Circumstantial Evidence

Comments: (20)

**Molly H**: eep!

**Mary Watson**: Oh, adorable!

**JHW**: Circumstances aside, the question hangs in the balance – was Sherlock late or not?

**G Lestrade**: Late enough for me to nearly have a coronary – again!

**Mike Stamford**: I`m not that nit picky about a few beakers…

**G Lestrade**: Sally, back me up – what time did Sherlock get there?

**G Lestrade**: Sally?

**Sally Donovan**: Sorry Boss, had some stuff to attend to…

**Mary Watson**: Ooh, sounds grim, Sally

**Molly H**: Hope everything`s ok?

**Sally Donovan**: It is now. Getting rid of bad rubbish – should have done it a lot sooner.

**G Lestrade**: High time; he was a wanker

**Sherlock Holmes**: 1.29 pm, if anyone is still interested.

**JHW**: You git – prove it.

**Sherlock Holmes**: I have the court records. I have emailed them to you.

**G Lestrade**: Unbelievable!

**Sherlock Holmes**: Give up, everyone – I did warn you.

**Sally Donovan**: We can`t give up now!

**JHW**: Haven`t you got a _stock cupboard_ that needs tidying?

**Sherlock Holmes**: Oh, why am I always better than everyone else…

**X**

* * *

**Arcoiris: thank you - it is great to know the tone is appropriate - I do worry about that at times!**

**Morgen: fear not! I hope the store cupboard incident has highlighted how happy they are with each other - Irene wouldn't have gone for that! :)**


	6. The Case of The Tardy Matinee Idol

John H Watson Blogs:

The darkest hour always comes before the dawn, dear readers, and true to form, just as I was giving up hope of ever finding an example of Sherlock`s lateness, help came from a very unexpected source.

As always, I welcome your comments (before Sherlock gets his hands on them, anyway).

The Case of The Tardy Matinee Idol

(with assistance from an anonymous source)

Sherlock Holmes is a genuine lover of music. He listens, appreciates and plays it, and can lose himself in the swell of a melody and the mood of a phrase along with the rest of us. Perhaps what separates Sherlock from many, however, is his inability to tolerate any music which is not contained in the very narrow limits of his choosing.

Classical - generally ok, but nothing by Tchaikovsky, Holst, Saint-Saens, Ravel and several other composers he regards as `too mainstream` or `derivative`. The list is not short. No pop, no hip-hop, no rap, no R & B, and definitely, no show tunes.

Although Sherlock would have everyone believe that he sprang, fully formed, from the skull of Zeus, or some other deity, it should be known that he does actually have a set of very lovely parents (_hello Vernet and Miriam_!) who do love him quite a bit. Strange, but true, and he is pretty lucky. Said Holmes parents quite frequently come up to town to attend various events, including concerts, plays and occasionally, even line-dancing festivals. As is in-keeping (and normal), they generally like to catch up with their beloved boys (_hi, Mycroft_!) at the same time, and encourage them to attend such events in the spirit of family getting together.

Lovely, yes?

Let`s go back, then, to a dingy September day, a few years back, when Sherlock received a visit from an unusual quarter; his brother Mycroft.

"I won`t be stopping, Sherlock."

Sherlock had his back to his brother (nice) and was scraping an irritating cacophony of notes on his Stradivarius.

"I know … counting on it."

"Hmm. I won`t be needing a cup of tea, thank you, Mrs Hudson – "

"No, indeed you won`t." Sherlock turned his least realistic smile towards his brother.

"You`ll be wanting your MoD pass back, then, I take it? Shame – it was so useful in Baskerville."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I am so thrilled you found the theft of important and highly sensitive government property so profitable for your – little adventure."

"Invaluable."

"Stop picking my pockets, like a Dickensian street urchin."

Sherlock smiles.

"I`ll stop when your pockets cease being so – useful. What else do you want, Mycroft? I can tell there`s something else – something you`re a little uncomfortable with – come on, have at it!"

Mycroft gives it up, steadies his umbrella and suddenly sits down in the nearest chair. His face is a mixture of discomfort, awkwardness and resignation. Very un-Mycroft.

"Mummy and Daddy arrive tomorrow at eleven. The matinee starts at 2.30. Interval at 3.45. You _know_ what we agreed."

Sherlock`s face is blank, but internally, he is instantly sharing Mycroft`s fear.

_The Lion King. Puppets. Disney Songs. Elton bloody John! Oh dear God…_

Mycroft stands and adopts a firmer stance as he turns towards the door.

"You take over at 3.45. Do not be LATE…"

**X**

_`Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase_

_Hakuna Matata! Ain't no passing craze_

_It means no worries for the rest of your days_

_It's our problem-free philosophy…!`_

The only worry felt by Mycroft Holmes at that moment was the growing urge to commit mass felicide, as the bastardised tale of _Hamlet_ was played out with the help of the African Savannah and Disney show tunes.

_Hell._

A glance over at his parents revealed wide eyed adoration, perma-smiles; coupled with eyes (his mother) brimming with tears. Mycroft understood – he quite felt like crying himself.

He checked his watch for the fourteenth time.

3.23 pm

As his phone vibrated discretely in his breast pocket, Mycroft Holmes felt the weight of the first raven, gathering at the graveside. An omen. A presentiment of badness.

Sherlock.

_`Small problem. May be slightly late. SH`_

Oh, this was intolerable.

_`We agreed. You are going back on your word.`_

`_Unavoidable. Am in a predicament. SH`_

_`You are testing the few shreds of sanity and patience I retain. Do not push further, little brother.`_

A hellish few moments of wart-hog/meerkat Disney banter had to be endured before his phone vibrated again.

_`Am in jail. SH`_

**X**

It seemed that commandeering vehicles to indulge in high speed car chases was only the fodder of Hollywood films, and not something the Metropolitan force took too kindly to. The owner of the Citroen hadn`t much cared for a near collision with a lanky, coat-wearing consulting detective who proceeded to rip open his door, pull him out of his own car and proceed to slam it into reverse along a busy thoroughfare to keep tabs on an escaping suspect. And all without an actual driving license.

And whilst Mycroft Holmes felt his brother`s methods could often be effective and his motives pure, on this occasion, he was surely justified in being suspicious of his Sherlock`s sudden and immediate incarceration.

Convenient; extremely so.

And, as _The Circle of Life_ reached its grand, inspirational crescendo, he vowed that one day, in some way, big or small, he would adopt a very _Scar_-_like_ demeanour, and exact a cold revenge upon his brother.

He could depend upon it.

**X**

The Case of the Tardy Matinee Idol

Comments: (18)

**G Lestrade**: Gotcha!

**JHW**: Oh, dear, Sherlock – Big Brother gets his revenge! You were late! It happened!

**Mary Watson**: Ha ha ha! Bravo to Mycroft!

**Iceman**: A dish best served cold, little brother.

**Sherlock Holmes**: Ah, Mycroft, you honour us with your presence on the Blog. So pleased you could attend.

**Iceman**: Occasionally, I do like to mingle.

**Sally Donovan**: Ha ha ha! Out done by your own family – I love it. Told you we`d prove you were late!

**Sherlock Holmes**: Technically, Sally, I was not late. I never attended the charming event, therefore I was _absent_.

**G Lestrade**: Don`t you bloody DARE….

**Sherlock Holmes**: But, as it is so important to everyone, and in a final attempt to bring this nonsense to a conclusion, I defer to your judgment. I was late. I apologise, Lestrade. _Everyone_ has been late at one time or another and I am no exception. I will attempt to be more patient with the tardiness of others in the future. Happy?

**JHW**: Is that a script that Molly has written out for you?

**Sherlock Holmes**: I may have been offered some – advice.

**Mrs Hudson**: Well, I hope we can all put this behind us now and get on with our lives! Anyone want a cup of tea?

**Sherlock Holmes**: Yes. And a biscuit if you will.

**JHW**: Me too, thanks Mrs H.

**Molly Hooper**: That would be lovely.

**Mary Watson**: Hang on, are you all sitting in the same room and typing?

**JHW:** Busted.

**X**

* * *

**A/N: I, personally, love show tunes, and if were John or Molly, I`d play them in Baker Street, every time Sherlock got selfishly annoying. So there.**


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

221C. Once the basement, now _Skylab_, Sherlock`s most indulgent gift to himself – his very own in-house laboratory, funded by the very grateful blackmail victims of a certain Charles Augustus Magnussen.*

Many a man`s livelihood and freedom had depended on the microscopes and slides perused in this glittering underground prize. All the brushed steel glass fronted cabinets that stored glassware, re-agents and optical filters jostled for space besides a bespoke de-ionized water supply and set of de-humidifiers which reduced the chances of contamination. The ELISA plate alone had cost an eye-watering £10,000. Sherlock loved it almost as much as he loved the woman who sat alone, at one of its benches on that Saturday evening, four weeks after Sherlock had apologised to Greg Lestrade (in writing, no less).

Molly`s look was intent as she pipetted two drops of liquid into a test tube and place it in the centrifuge. Its soft hum always calmed her. The lab was such a sanctuary at times.

A moment later, Sherlock rounded the door in a flurry of urgency and red dressing gown.

"Feet, Sherlock."

Molly was very strict regarding shoes in the lab. Ben was learning, but Sherlock was a law unto himself.

He begrudgingly pushes his feet into a lone pair of trainers, put there for that purpose.

"Nanny." He kisses the top of her head and throws open the immaculate glass-fronted refrigerator, rootling around amongst the labelled plastic containers. Things had been a lot more organised since Molly Hooper had refused to mix her coagulants with her coleslaw.

"Where`s my heart, Molly?" He reaches into the very back of the top shelf, squinting at labels.

"Hmmm." She smiles, and looks at him, keeping one eye on the timer of the centrifuge.

Sherlock turns and clocks her ironic gaze.

"Wordplay, Molly? Enchanting." He finds the box he was looking for and takes it across to where she sits.

"Since I now apologise to Scotland Yard buffoons and wear questionable footwear just because you ask me to, I think we both know the answer to that question."

Molly smiles again and ruffles his hair.

_Beautiful man. I love you._

"Are you my _pet_ now, Sherlock? Is that what you`re saying? Have I domesticated you? Tamed the _Great Sherlock Holmes_?"

"Never! People come and bow down at my shrine and quake in receipt of my wrath. I am no-one`s _PET_, Molly Hooper!"

"You let them win, Sherlock – John, Greg, Mycroft, Sally … You let them catch you out."

"I was bored. Have I disappointed you? Should I have fought harder?"

Molly takes his face in her hands and looks deep into those eyes.

"Naah … You made me proud. You let it go. You didn't need to have the last word, and that`s progress, Sherlock."

He sat down, suddenly, on the stool next to her as she stopped the centrifuge and took out the test tube.

"You know what, in the end, I didn't mind being caught out. Their victory actually meant more to them than it did to me…oh, goodness Molly – I think I might be – _evolving_!"

_One day, you`ll be a real boy, Pinocchio._

Sherlock opened the boxed heart and stared into its depths.

"Always more disappointing in real life than in metaphor and fairy tale. A bloody, pulpy mess."

"Seducer."

"Scientist."

"Grammar Nazi."

"Nanny."

"Latecomer!"

Sherlock grins.

"Told you, I no longer care about people being late – least of all myself."

Molly is dipping what looks like a litmus strip into the test tube and frowning. She dips another. Then a third.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes, good that you don't mind people being late, since _I am_."

There is a beat; a pause. The hum fills the silence.

"You - ?" Sherlock looks up from the heart, across at her, then at the tube in her hand.

"Oh dear God – "

"Two weeks. Thought I`d better check." She holds up the tube. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable … "

And they sit in silence as the hum of Skylab soothed them into acceptance.

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: Oh dear, now looks what`s happened! Let`s hope Sherlock doesn't try and keep it all a secret again - John will not be pleased to be left out!**

**Thank you so much everyone for all your support with this silly little tale - I do love it, and very much appreciate the reviews/follows/favourites.**

**Stay tuned - **

**Emma x**

*** Skylab first mentioned and described in `The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Quiet Time`.**


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